jinglyjangly - Tumblr blog

jinglyjangly · 11 hours ago

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Howdy howdy!

I've written up the WIP first chapter for my fallout OCs. Calling it “Moon River” for now!

I just really want to write about them before the second season of the show before it ruins more lore. It's set a year before FNV in California… again still a wip, still working on more, still not super satisfied but I’m happy I got this much done tbh

When the sunlight begins to bleed into the horizon, everything in the Mojave shifts. That last stretch of dying light stains the sands a burnt orange as the distant mountains catch its highlight on every ridge. The heat that clings to your skin during the day suddenly retreats, replaced by a bone-deep chill that slips in through your clothes and sinks into your core. Dimitri knew that sensation all too well. He’d felt it a thousand times before, traveling the endless wasteland between Death Valley and the Colorado river. Out here, nothing cared about war, not even him.

He’d been scouting the junction where the 127 and 178 met, once a spot that once pulsed with life. Merchants, caravans, and wanderers all visited creating new livelihoods. Now, it lay buried beneath an unrelenting sandstorm, the air thick with grit and blinding white haze. It wrenched at something in his chest to see it reduced such violence so suddenly. No one even seemed to know how it happened, only vague myths and rumors. One day it was bustling, the next it was swallowed whole.

He relayed everything he saw to the nearest outpost, and was greeted instantly with new orders. The crumpled papers were handed off to him by a weary trooper. Her dust-caked face betrayed the exhaustion that hung on every soldier posted in these outer areas. It said something about a captured legionary prisoner having important intel. He noticed who sent it and realized exactly why he was the one who got it.

It had ended up taking him much longer than he expected to to get to Havasu. Every broken down outpost along the way seemed to tug at him, asking for one thing or another. Fix a busted generator, clear out a nest of bloatflies, find a missing kid — always something. One favor turns into two more, and before you know it, you’re knee-deep in nonsense you never meant to be part of. It's the wasteland method he both resented and relied upon, for as much as it delayed him, the caps jingling in his satchel proved it was worth it in the end.

The resort stood before him now, after what felt like an endless trek. The front doors creaked as he pushed them open, and a stale, musty scent of mildew and aging wood greeted him. Soldiers crowded around ancient terminals repurposed for military duty, their faces pale in the sickly green glow of monitors. The rapid clatter of keystrokes mingled with the steady echo of his footsteps on cracked tile, filling the dimly lit lobby as he made his way through. Faded murals of the pre-war paradise peeled from the walls, and forgotten lounge chairs lay rotting in a corner, making way for stacked crates of ammo, rifles, and armor. It felt like a graveyard of luxury, the bones of a fanciful life repurposed for the business of survival.

“Here’s the report.”

The voice snapped him out of the haze. A manila file filled with a stack of papers was shoved into his chest. Lieutenant Cruz. She looked even more tired than the last time he’d seen her — eyes shadowed, lines cutting deeper into her face. The war with the Legion wore on everyone, but some seemed to carry it heavier than others.

“Our prisoner is Legion, no doubt about it,” she said, planting a hand on her hip. “He’s only said maybe two things since we found him passed out on the 95. Mostly screamed like hell when we treated his wounds.”

Dimitri thumbed through the packet. No name. No rank. Nothing but a few notes on his injuries and a location where they found him.

Dimitri paused for a second and huffed under his breath, “screaming isn't really words.”

“He eventually said words, alright? Figure of speech. And now you’re here to do your thing. Says he won’t tell us anything unless we cut him loose.”

“How would that work?”

“It doesn’t. It’s why you’re here.”

Dimitri grimaced. Interrogations weren’t his style. He could talk his way through most situations, but trying to pry answers from men too stubborn or too proud to break gets exhausting.

“I’m not going to tell you to be careful,” Cruz said, eyes narrowing. “But stay sharp. There’s something about this one. He’s… strange.”

Dimitri grinned. “What, got a crush on him?”

She snorted a short laugh. “No, you idiot. I just know you. You’re persuasive… but you can be persuaded. Get me anything on Blythe. Or the dam. Or hell, Caesar’s grocery list. Anything.”

He paused hearing the town, his grin fading, brow furrowing as a flicker of unease crept in. “Blythe? What’s going on there?”

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Did you even read the brief?”

“I skimmed.”

“Goddamn Rangers…everyone of you are practically allergic to paperwork.” She shook her head and continued, “Blythe went dark a while ago. There were reports about random legion sightings, and then nothing. You were supposed to check it out before Mr. John Doe showed up.”

“Think he’s connected?”

“No idea. That’s why you’re here. He’s in the cell down the hallway.”

“You’re not—”

“I’ve got shit to do. Good luck.” She clapped a firm hand on his shoulder, handing him the key and disappeared down the hall.

Dimitri lingered a moment, a knot of unease coiling in his gut. Blythe being silent was bad. The faster he wrapped this up, the faster he could see what waited for him downriver.

He walked up to the door and nodded to the soldier guarding, opening the door with the key she gave him. The “cell” wasn’t so much a cell as it was a repurposed laundry room. Broken washing machines lined the walls like rusted tombs. Snapped ironing boards and piles of rotted linens cluttered the space. A single figure sat among the debris facing away from the door, handcuffed to a dented folding chair beneath a flickering overhead bulb.

Dimitri frowned. The prisoner didn’t fit the usual mold of a hulking brute in Legion armor. He was slender, tall, with unkempt black hair and a scattering of old scars across sun-worn skin. The tattered scraps of clothes baring red barely clung to him, and fresh blood darkened the bandages around his midsection. And then there was the bull, branded into the back of his neck.

He poked his head back out the door, “This is the guy she wants me to ‘interrogate’?”

The guard shrugged. “Only Legionary here.”

“He’s not… the usual-”

“Is there a problem?”

Dimitri clenched his jaw. “No.”

He stepped inside, locking the door behind him. The man stared at him with unsettling clarity, pale eyes glinting in the dim light. Dimitri sat opposite, the sun’s last light slashing through the grimy window and reflecting off a dented metal table, forcing him to squint.

“Not the typical interrogee,” he muttered, flipping open the file, clicking his pen. “Name's Dimitri. Do you have a name? Or do I have to call you John? You really don’t look like a John. Johnny maybe, or JJ. Jr?”

He got a dismissive eye-roll in response.

“I should be guessing Roman names, huh? Although I don’t know a whole lot. How about…Alexius. That sounds cool.”

“That's Greek.”

“Is there a difference?”

That made him turn his head, and Dimitri greeted him with a smug look at the break in the prisoner’s silence. The voice did catch him off guard, low and crisp. He leaned back from the glare of the window, idly tapping the pen against his jaw, a thoughtful glint in his eye. Cruz was right about him being a bit strange. He noticed a shift in the prisoner's jaw as he went back to looking at the clock on the wall.

He sighed and realized this wasn’t going to go very far. Dimitri tilted his head and looked at the same broken clock on the wall. 9:47 like every other single one. Why doesn’t anyone ever fix them? He opted to look at his watch. 17:02. He doesn’t really have the time to keep doing this if what Cruz said was true.

“Look, since you’re not talking, I’m left guessing. So, I'm guessing you have no rank either by exile or by choice, so you have no allegiance. Here, right now, you're a prisoner, but you're safe. If I'm right, that means if the legion does find you, you're worse than dead. If you’ve got something useful, now’s the time. Talk, and maybe things get a little easier for you. Cruz said you wanted free, but you have to talk first.”

He stayed perfectly still, though his gaze slid back to Dimitri’s with the slow, deliberate weight of sizing him up.

“I have nothing.”

Dimitri stared into the man’s pale eyes and saw nothing but an unbroken calm. No fear. No desperation. He sighed, closing the file. Whether he did know anything or not, there was no point in wasting time. Dimitri pulled back and got out of the chair.

“Alrighty. Thank you for your participation.”

He left the room, the soft scrape of the door dragging against the warped tile floor, and locked it behind him with a metallic click. The key felt heavy in his hand as he passed it off to the guard. Without a word, he turned and made his way down the dim hallway, each step echoing alongside the steady chorus of keystrokes from the command post terminals. The combined rhythm of hurried typing and his bootfalls filled the air, a sharp, hollow percussion against the crumbling rafters of the old resort.

The kitchen sat at the furthest end of the hall, repurposed tables cluttered with ration tins and dented canteens. A few soldiers loitered there, faces drawn and weary, savoring the illusion of rest. The stale scent of scorched mirelurk meat hung thick in the air, mingling with acrid wisps of cigarette smoke. Dimitri’s stomach gnawed at him, a sharp reminder that if he was going to cover ninety miles of wasteland, it wouldn’t be on an empty gut.

He sat down to a plate of half-burnt potatoes and stringy mirelurk tail, barely tasting the briny, overcooked flesh as his mind churned. Lying to Cruz would be easy, a simple mercy for everyone involved. Blythe was likely already ash, overrun by Legion, and this entire interrogation had been a pointless inconvenience. Confirm her fears, get a handful of troopers, maybe a truck or jeep, and the mystery man gets buried in paperwork and eventually let go. The Legion mark was the only thing keeping him here, and if Dimitri spun this right, he might wrangle something better than a rusted seat at NCRCF.

The clatter of dishes and dull murmur of conversation broke suddenly as Cruz stormed into the room, her palm slamming against the table hard enough to rattle his plate.

“Did you lock the fucking door?”

Dimitri blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. “Uh… yeah?”

“Well, he’s gone.”

He frowned, glancing down the hall as if he might see the escapee lurking in the shadows. “He couldn’t have gone far.”

“I know that, smartass. Just—ugh!” She spun on her heel and stalked off down the corridor. Dimitri let out a long sigh, abandoned his plate, and stacked his dishes onto the cart with a dull clatter.

The hallway felt colder now, an undercurrent of tension tightening around him. He double-checked his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the utility room. The door hung ajar, the dim overhead bulb throwing a wedge of light across the cracked tile. The cuffs lay discarded on the floor, dull against the grime. Cruz was already inside, pacing in a tight line, gnawing at the edge of her thumb.

“It’s like he vanished,” she muttered. “And so did my soldier.”

Dimitri’s eyes swept the room, past rusted washing machines and sagging shelves. One of the larger machines had its door slightly ajar. He approached, dread creeping up his spine, and tugged it open to reveal the missing trooper crammed inside, stripped of his uniform, with a bruise forming on his head and unconscious.

“Shit—”

He pressed two fingers to the kid’s throat. The pulse was weak, but there. Dimitri exhaled in relief, pulling the soldier free from the cramped metal drum.

“Oh god—”

“Relax,” Dimitri grunted, laying the kid down gently and turning him on his side. “He’ll wake up with a killer headache, but he’ll be fine.”

A deep rumble rolled through the air, the distant sound of an explosion blooming somewhere beyond the walls. Dust sifted from the rafters. Cruz and Dimitri locked eyes.

“Go,” she ordered. “I’ve got him.”

Dimitri bolted, boots pounding against tile and wood, the sharp echo of each step chasing him down the dim hallway. The night air hit him like a slap as he burst onto the porch, dry and cool, carrying the bitter scent of gunpowder and burning wood. The beach was in chaos—troopers shouting over one another, scrambling for weapons, smoke curling skyward from a fresh crater near the supply dump. But out on the docks, one figure moved with eerie calm. A tall man in a trooper’s helmet and mask, no armor, just a standard-issue uniform. That alone made Dimitri’s interest pique. The cool night air carried the harsh, acrid scent of scorched timber from the explosion and diesel fumes wafting from the nearby motorboat, thick and bitter as it filled his lungs.

Without hesitation, he snatched his helmet from his pack, jamming it onto his head as he crept through the shadows, keeping low. Waves slapped lazily against the pilings, a grim, steady heartbeat against the wood. The muffled crunch of his footsteps on sand mingled with the ghostly echo of his own breathing inside the helmet, every sense sharpened by adrenaline.

As Dimitri reached the end of the dock, words failed him. No clever speech, no rehearsed demand. Just raw instinct.

“You really don’t need to do this.”

The figure froze mid-motion, halfway through tossing a canvas bag into the boat, and turned to glare at him. That same cold, calculating stare from earlier. Dimitri’s fingers tightened around the grip of his pistol.

In a flicker of motion, a small butter knife whirled through the dark, catching a glint of moonlight before striking Dimitri’s chest with a dull, metallic thunk, deflecting off his armor. He grunted, instinctively recoiling — and in that heartbeat, the man surged forward. A boot swept his legs out from under him, and Dimitri hit the planks hard, the rotting dock shuddering beneath his back.

The figure was on him instantly, wrenching his pistol free with a swift, practiced jerk. The butt of the weapon cracked hard against the side of Dimitri’s head, a flash of light bursting behind his eyes. Dazed but fueled by sheer stubbornness, Dimitri lashed out, driving his fist into the man’s gut. He felt the impact in his knuckles, hearing a grunt.

He twisted, grappling for control, and managed to knock the pistol loose, sending it skittering across the dock. Gritting his teeth, Dimitri shoved his forearm against the man’s throat, straining to flip him. As he tried to pin the other wrist down, he could feel a hand reach around his back. A sudden, hot sting bloomed in his thigh — a knife, buried deep. He screamed in protest, and his grip faltered.

He then felt a force to his chest as he was kicked back onto the boards. He hissed in pain, eyes darting to the gash on his leg where blood welled up, dark and thick in the dim light. He propped himself up on his elbow. It was deep, but didn’t hit any major arteries. He gritted his teeth , clutching the wound. He wasn’t winded, but close combat had never been his strength.

Across from him, the man had retrieved his bowie knife and now toyed with it, flipping it idly in one hand testing its balance on his finger. That smug, practiced arrogance in his stance made Dimitri’s blood boil.

“Are you afraid to die?” The sound of his voice made him pause again.

“No," Dimitri snarled, forcing himself up on his feet.

“No?” the man echoed, his head cocking in faint amusement.

“Because I know I won’t.”

The knife’s tip lifted, beckoning. “Then take off the armor.”

Dimitri’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. He was done playing games. “No.”

The man’s expression darkened. Without warning, he bolted for the boat. Dimitri lunged after him, but the other man was quicker, ducking low and driving an elbow hard into the back of Dimitri’s neck. His balance crumbled. A forearm clamped around his throat, powerful legs kicking out his knees. The dock blurred around him as the world lurched sideways.

He fought the hold, hands clawing at the arm crushing his windpipe. Darkness gnawed at the edges of his vision, his ears filling with the roaring rush of his own pulse. Desperate, he twisted, but the strength drained from his limbs.

Then everything slipped away.

Dimitri came to with a sharp, throbbing ache behind his eyes. The world was hazy, shapes and colors bleeding into one another until the full moon cut through the clouds. Blurred moonlight smeared across the river’s surface, turning the water into rippling glass. His head pounded with every heartbeat, his leg ached, and his throat felt raw where the man’s forearm had crushed it.

He groaned, pushing himself upright. Sand clung to his bloodied hands and the back of his neck, and sharp splinters bit into his palm from the dock’s weathered boards. Around him, the beach had settled into an uneasy quiet. Smoke still drifted in thin, lazy plumes as lights flickered on as the night settled in.

At least no one was around to witness him sprawled in the dirt like a rookie.

He limped back toward the resort, each step sending a hot lance of pain through his thigh. He found Cruz outside the infirmary shack, leaning against the battered frame of the door, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers. The soldier from earlier lay on a cot inside, pale and glassy-eyed, an ice pack balanced awkwardly against his temple. Another patient was curled on a second cot, groaning softly.

“Injury from the blast?” Dimitri rasped, voice rough from the chokehold.

Cruz didn’t look up. “Nope. Food poisoning. Bad mirelurk. The explosion was a goddamn dumpster. Distraction.”

Dimitri scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah… he took the boat.”

Cruz sighed, dragging a hand down her face. “Damn it. That was our only one. Mead’s got the rest.”

“Why?”

“Recon runs. Repairs. Supply hauls. Take your pick.” She flicked the spent cigarette into the dirt and fished another from her pocket. The lighter’s flare briefly lit the wear on her face—new lines, old exhaustion.

Dimitri glanced upriver. “I guess that means I’m walking.”

“Sure as hell does,” Cruz muttered through a drag. “No jeeps, no trucks, no soldiers to spare. You’ll have to hoof it to Blythe the old-fashioned way. And pick up the pace while you’re at it. Feels like a timer’s running out for that place, if it’s not already gone.”

Dimitri grimaced, jaw tight. He could feel it too. A creeping weight in his gut and he murmured, “yeah… At least you still have soldiers.”

“I doubt he went upriver,” Cruz went on. “If you move fast, you might even catch him.”

Dimitri arched his brow. “You want your boat back?”

“You gonna carry it?”

He smirked despite himself. “What about your prisoner?”

She snorted, a dry, humorless sound. “You gonna carry him too?” A thin smile ghosted across her face. “I don’t need any more Legion bastards hanging around. If he didn’t give you anything useful, let the river take him. Boat’s worth more to Blythe.”

Dimitri gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

Before he could brace, Cruz whipped a stimpack from her belt and jammed it into his thigh.

“Shit! Little warning next time.”

“Baby.”

Dimitri grunted, adjusting his pack as the sting dulled to a lingering heat. The desert night unspooled before him, cold and endless, the low murmur of the river threading through the hush. He set out along the bank, his boots scuffing over cracked stone and brittle earth. Somewhere out there, the current carried both a stolen boat and unfinished business.

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jinglyjangly · 19 hours ago